Page 48 of Brotan

The door has barely closed behind him when Mom whirls on me, her practiced social smile vanishing. "Maya Elizabeth Johnson, what on earth are you thinking?"

"Excuse me?" I cross my arms, bracing for the storm.

"Don't play naive," Dad interjects, voice low but intense. "That was the orc you treated in the ER? The one you risked your career for."

The accuracy of his assessment leaves me momentarily speechless. Dad continues, connecting dots. "Is that why you came here? To follow him? Or did he follow you?"

"Neither," I snap, heat rising to my face. "Neither of us knew the other would be here. It was a coincidence."

"Coincidence." Mom's laugh is brittle. "You throw away a prestigious position to work in a—" she gestures at the modest clinic, "—a glorified first aid station, and by 'coincidence' that... individual... is here too?"

"His name is Crow," I say through gritted teeth. "And yes, coincidence. The Ironborn MC assigned him to help rebuild the town around the same time Hammer contacted me about the doctor position."

"Hammer?" Dad repeats, latching onto the unfamiliar name. "Crow, Diesel, Hammer? Who are these people, Maya?"

"Hammer is the president of the motorcycle club," I explain, immediately regretting the admission when their expressions sharpen with disapproval.

"A motorcycle gang recruited you?" Dad's voice climbs an octave. "And you didn't think that was suspicious?"

"Club, not gang," I correct automatically. "And I needed a fresh start. They needed a doctor. It was mutually beneficial."

"Mutually—" Mom sputters, pressing her fingertips to her temples. "Maya, please tell me you're not romantically involved with that... creature."

The harsh words hit just like she intends them to. "That 'creature' has a name," I say, anger burning through my professional veneer. "And my relationship with Crow is professional."

The lie tastes bitter, a betrayal of what we've shared. But admitting to my parents that I've fallen for an orc fighter is unthinkable. They'd have me committed.

"Professional," Dad repeats skeptically. "Is that what you call whatever we just walked in on?"

"We were discussing security measures," I say, the half-truth coming easily. "The town has had a few arson attempts since I arrived."

"Arson?" Mom's hand flies back to her throat. "Maya, this is exactly why we've been so concerned. This town isn't safe."

"It's safer than New York," I argue. "The incidents were isolated. The added protection is just precautionary."

"And you expect us to believe your relationship with the orc is purely professional? Security-related?" Dad's disbelief shows in the deep furrow of his brows.

"I don't expect you to believe anything," I say, my patience fraying. "I wasn't expecting visitors, and frankly, I have a full day of patients scheduled."

Mom appears wounded by my tone. "We thought you'd be pleased to see us. After our call earlier this week, and not hearing back, we were worried."

"You could have told me you were coming," I point out.

"Would you have told us not to come?" Dad challenges.

The truth—yes, absolutely—hovers on my tongue, but I swallow it. "Let's not do this now," I say, forcing a smile. "Why don't you go to my bungalow next door, rest from your drive, there's wine in the refrigerator, though not a name that you'll recognize, and we can catch up over dinner?"

"Is that your way of asking us to leave?" Mom's smile is sharp, even though I know she's trying to fight it.

"It's my way of saying I'm working," I counter. "The spare key is under the flowerpot on the porch. Make yourselves at home. I'll be there by six."

They exchange a loaded glance before Dad finally nods his acceptance.

"We'll see you at dinner, then," he says. "Perhaps you can explain to us then what's so special about this place that's worth sacrificing everything you've worked for."

His gaze flicks meaningfully toward the door, where Crow disappeared earlier. The implication is clear:tell us this isn't about that orc.

Alone again, I sink into the chair behind the reception desk, my legs suddenly wobbly. What am I going to tell them at dinner? How can I explain that Shadow Ridge matters to me—that these people need me in a way New York Memorial's patients never did?

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